Clean Hands and Dirty Work
by Pheonicia
Summary: He never gets his hands dirty; she can never get hers clean. Combining the two leads to explosive results...
1. Chapter 1

Mr. Burke knew of many ways to kill a man, but he'd never heard of doing it via _suicide_ before.

Suicide by _minefield_, no less.

In an irritated motion of tapped-off cigarette ashes and pushed-up tinted glasses, he wished with all his might for an ice-frosted tumbler of fine whiskey to magically appear in front of him. The murky swill in the chipped glass, dished up by a rotting corpse of a ghoul bartender and garnished with this most unusual - yet unwelcome - tidbit of news, fell far short of his hopes.

Mr. Burke took the piss-warm booze back to the shady corner of the saloon, realizing the full inconvenience of the naïve vault dweller's demise with each dust-cloud raising step. Not only were the bits and pieces of the best prospect he'd met now scattered over the wastes, but the fusion pulse charge went up in that same spectacular display of misguided bravado and shredded body parts.

Which left him stuck here in this baking shit hole of a town, to conduct his affairs under the scheming eye of the saloon owner and the watchful eye of the self-appointed sheriff. He needed to make _another_ detonator, while still looking for an individual with enough perception, greed, or sheer maliciousness to accept his proposal.

Stubbing out the stinking remnants of his cigarette in the grime-filled ashtray, he stared into the depths of his drink, searching for answers and stray bits of ghoul flesh. It held neither, only a stomach ravaging sting and the promise of a super mutant sized hangover if he drank too much.

Mr. Burke set the distasteful beverage to the side, brushed a fleck of stray ash from his lapel, and eased further back into his chair. With the brim of his hat pulled low, and his eyes closed behind their shrouded lenses, he could block out the mindless chattering of the whore and her clients, the zombie behind the bar and the regulars shining the counter with their elbows, and finally get back to the important business at hand.

The intriguing challenge of how to kill an entire town without lifting a finger.


	2. Chapter 2

She didn't have the hands of a killer, but then killers never did.

Mr. Burke worked with many of them, and he'd yet to see the proverbial blood on the hands. He'd noticed dirt under the fingernails, bruises on the knuckles, and once a deep row of teeth marks scabbing around a thumb in a violent parody of a ring, but never so much as a speck of blood.

She certainly showed none on her hands, the palms gripping the broom calloused and strong, the fingers long and spatulate, with nails marred not by nervous habit, but mechanical leanings and experimentations. Just looking at them he imagined he could smell the motor grease and sulphur trapped in the deep grooves of her skin.

As she tucked the broom to the side, perking up at the new customer in her store, he realized he _could_ smell motor grease, sulphur, and the caustic brine of dangerous liquids lingering in the air.

"Oh, hey there! Don't mind the smell. I was just testing a few chemicals. It's perfectly safe to breathe. Really." The shopkeeper greeted him with a friendly, lilting tone, one he instantly found distasteful. People who sounded like her were always described as _cheery_ or _perky_ or _peppy_.

He found it simplest to cut the bullshit, and go with a more apt – yet similarly rhyming – description.

_Crazy_.

No sane person could survive in the wastes and keep such a chipper attitude. No, either their brains were scrambled with radiation, their perceptions skewed in a haze of jet, or their grip on reality crispy fried in the relentless sun. The woman introducing herself as Moira Brown didn't bear the telltale glassy eyes of a jet head, nor did her skin appear like leather left out for a few too many nuclear winters.

Which left the distinct possibility she was emitting more rads than that damn warhead in the middle of town.

Keeping extra space from the bubbly shopkeeper, Mr. Burke pulled the folded list of necessities from the pocket of his blazer. The detonator wasn't that difficult to construct, but it required a confounding numbers of bits and pieces from assorted wasteland junk.

"Ooh, what are you planning to build?" Moira, with an unhealthy amount of delighted curiosity, attempted to decipher his intentions from his shopping list. "Wonderglue, ham radio, fission battery..." she scanned the items, mussy auburn ponytail bobbing as she confirmed everything was in stock, "well, it looks like you're either setting up your own radio station, or you're trying to receive messages from aliens."

"Neither, I assure you," Mr. Burke responded crisply, perturbed by her perceptiveness. The detonator was surprisingly simple – a receiver tuned to the right frequency, the proper amount of wires and connectors to attach to the bomb, and the trigger to make it go – which made it all the more difficult to disguise.

There wasn't much left in the wasteland that one could possibly _detonate, activate_, or otherwise _set off_.

Moira rummaged around her shelves, pulling things out from cartons or behind precariously balanced stacks. Mr. Burke ignored her for the most part, settling for the occasional grunt whenever her mumbled runaway train of thoughts – somehow bouncing from the possibility of aliens to musings about their societal structure to ponderings about the social life of mirelurks – elicited a response. To the background of her half-spoken chatter and the clatter of her junk hunting, he took the opportunity to look around the shop.

There wasn't much to it, fashioned from the same rust coated scrap metal as the rest of town. The main floor held the shop, with its crowded shelves and cluttered countertop, while the second floor acted as her personal residence. A terminal – surprisingly functional – hid behind the counter. Trying to get a better glimpse of it, Mr. Burke was startled by a gruff voice behind him.

"It's locked for a reason," the mercenary leaning against the wall growled out. Mr. Burke turned to look, a silent comparison of relative lethality passing between them. The guard, with his leather armour and rifle, was better prepared for a sudden fire fight.

Mr. Burke offered him a thin sneer of a smile and turned back to the counter, smug in his secret plans. Little did the hired goon know he was working on something that would soon vaporize his powerful armour along with the rest of this pissant town.

So, really, who was the most dangerous man in the room?

"There you go!" Moira, arms full of greasy components, set his purchases on the only clear bit of counter space in a racket of loose springs and rusty gyros. Grubby hands hovering over the goods, she mentally tallied up the cost of it. "It'll be a hundred caps for the lot."

"One hundred?" Mr. Burke's lips thinned as he surveyed the pile of junk. He didn't begrudge spending what he had to in order to make things happen, but he'd be damned if he'd accept a poor deal. He was a businessman, after all. "I could purchase this from the traders for fifty, and in far better condition." To emphasize his point he poked at a broken clock, prompting the corroded spring bobbing inside to pop out. It flew through the air, going down behind a stack of wooden crates.

"Well, there might be a piece or two missing. I may have used some in my experiments..." Moira rubbed at her chin as she conceded the point. "Tell you what. I'll let you have them for seventy-five, and you can use the workbench to make your...sonic screwdriver?" At Mr. Burke's tight-lipped lack of response, Moira let out a chuckle. "Well, it was worth a shot. But my offer stands; seventy-five caps, and I'll even lend you a hand if you need it. Not literally, of course. What good would a severed hand be? Now a third hand – that would be useful. Though it would mean you'd need a whole new wardrobe..."

Seeing her thoughts jumping track, headed into the nebulous territory where imagination and science intersected, Mr. Burke quickly intervened to conclude the business at hand. "Seventy-five, you said?" He counted out the exorbitant price, considering those extra twenty-five caps worth it to make her insane pontifications cease.

He internally lamented the necessity of using the workbench in Moira's shop. He wouldn't return to Tenpenny Tower until his job was complete – he did have a reputation to uphold as a man who made things happen – but without his work area and the helpful assistance of Godfrey he couldn't build another fusion pulse charge.

He grimaced as he carefully removed his blazer, searching out the best spot to hang it – he'd just had it cleaned, after all. The mercenary cast a baleful glare as peeled himself off the wall beside the workbench, moving to find another comfortable spot to lean.

"Here you go," Moira chirped as she brought over a toolbox, popping the top open to show a vast selection of well-used implements. "Just let me know if you need anything else. I know how hard it can be to find a good assistant—"

"Silence," Mr. Burke quickly interrupted. "I must have absolute quiet in order to concentrate on my work."

Pressing a stained finger to her lips, Moira pantomimed shushing him, before leaving him with a cheerful nod.

As he rolled up his shirtsleeves, preparing to get his hands dirty – but not bloody, never bloody – Mr. Burke ruefully thought he understood how the woman managed to convince the gullible vault dweller to willingly traipse through a minefield.

He'd almost agree to it himself if it meant getting away from her overwhelmingly perky insanity.


	3. Chapter 3

They always said if you spent long enough in a tavern, you'd learn every secret in town. They, whoever _they_ were, clearly hadn't spent a morning in Moira Brown's shop.

As Mr. Burke laboured, struggling with rusted-over casings and stripped screws, it seemed everyone in town decided to traipse through the store. Listening to the witless banter of the knuckle dragging locals only reinforced his belief this town was nothing but a festering blight on the landscape.

Except...except occasionally someone would say something worthy enough to catch his attention – but not due to cleverness on their part. Moira's responses piqued his interest, the woman rising in his estimation from scatterbrained idiot to something more intelligent – and intriguingly malevolent – as the morning hours wore on.

Her fascinating answers, regrettably, did nothing to move her out from the category of 'batshit insane.'

Still, as he warmed up the soldering iron, hands sticky with her homemade flux (what she used for ingredients he desperately tried not to imagine), he kept track of her murmurings and mutterings. The more he heard, the less he felt it prudent to ignore her.

Moira Brown, he discovered, was a woman one should never turn one's back on.

The hollow metal door swung open with its telltale squeal of too-tight bolts. Along with a stream of brilliant sunshine and gush of hot, waste-baked air, the self-important 'mayor' of the town swaggered in, brimming with judgement and bullshit.

Mr. Burke's back bristled as he felt Lucas Simms' eyes fall on him and his work. Nothing could be discerned from his labours – the morning spent in the monotonous and scent-muddling tasks of dismantling everything into all the necessary components, leaving nothing more sinister than piles of springs and snippets of wire in neat bundles on the workbench.

Moira perked up, hailing the sheriff with the same overwhelming good cheer she greeted everyone. The large man hesitated near the doorway, a move Mr. Burke attributed as choosing between a pathetic attempt at intimidating the sly businessman at the workbench or paying polite attention to the bubbly woman behind the counter. Thankfully Lucas moved over to Moira, leaving Mr. Burke free to eavesdrop in peace.

"Moira..." The sheriff's commanding tone turned to confusion as he sniffed the air. "Damn it, what the hell is that smell?"

"Oh, it's perfectly fine, and made from organic ingredients. Well, it affects things' organs. That's close enough to being organic, right?" Moira chuckled, her humour meeting a wall of unimpressed silence from Lucas. "Either way, it's perfectly safe. Heck, once it got into food for Jericho, and he never even knew!"

"Moira," Lucas' voice drawled out in disapproval, like the gruff rumble of a highly annoyed father, "what have we talked about before?"

"But I haven't tried any of my 'concoctions' on anyone in town, 'experimented' on other people's property, or, umm," she trailed off, trying to remember the last point. "Oh yeah! I certainly haven't 'besmirched the reputation of Megaton' lately!"

"I reckon that kid from the vault would disagree. The little stunt he failed to pull off in Minefield is being gossiped 'bout from Rivet City to the Republic of Dave." Lucas shifted his weight as he loosed a drawn out sigh, the noise of one who'd had the same conversation too many times already. "And don't get me started on what you were wantin' one of those damn mines for."

Mr. Burke twirled a piece of crimped wire in his fingers, abandoning his work as he wished he could see if Lucas Simms' face was as red as it was in his imagination. It would only attract undue attention from the so-called _lawman_ if he turned around, and this was a conversation he didn't want cut short.

"Don't be silly. I haven't blown up anything in town since you asked me to stop," Moira protested in earnest, providing the same hint of low-grade violence and devilish back story Mr. Burke wanted to know more about. "It was for the guide. There's plenty of landmines out there, and people could trade them for caps if they knew how to disarm them—"

"Not the _guide_ again!"

"I'm almost done with the first chapter," Moira pressed on, attempting to mollify the increasingly grumpy lawman. "Just need to get a hold of a landmine, confirm my list of food sources, and study a living specimen with radiation poisoning—"

The yellow-jacketed piece of wire rolling between Mr. Burke's fingers fell to the workbench as he absorbed the full impact of Moira's words. The soft sound of it was lost underneath Lucas Simms' bellowing voice.

"Stop wasting your time on that damn guide! Do you realize how ridiculous these plans of yours are?"

"I realize a lot of things, but this isn't one of them because it's a real scientific necessity and... and... and not ridiculous at all!" Moira, voice strengthened with a hot pride Mr. Burke hadn't expected, staunchly denied Lucas' allegations. "Think what you like, but I've got a gift, and...and it'd be wrong not to try to use it!"

An angry retreat of footsteps punctuated with a distinctly feminine huff ended the argument. Mr. Burke retrieved his kinked wire, trying half-heartedly to pull it straight, while monitoring the creaking leather and tinny jangles of Lucas Simms striding over to him.

"Don't think I've forgotten about you," Lucas whispered darkly, looming a shade too close. "I've still got my eye on you."

"Ah, yes, the personal touch," Mr. Burke responded with an oily smile and cool composure. "How..._quaint_."

After a long glower Lucas finally stalked off to the door, flapping out his leather duster as if trying to shake off the foul smell and lingering taint of the distasteful company.

Thick silence fell on the store in the wake of the man's departure. Mr. Burke tugged the wire in a quick jerk, straightening it enough for his purposes. He counted up the parts and pieces in their little piles, ensuring he had everything required to assemble the fusion pulse charge. All the while he reflected that vaporising Lucas Simms' sanctimonious ass would be a delectable bonus at the conclusion of this venture.

The mercenary finally broke the silence, startling Mr. Burke as he tallied the screws. He'd actually forgotten about the man – the hired thug spent the last few hours standing in the same spot near Moira's terminal, not moving, not speaking, until he became as uninteresting and unimportant as an umbrella stand.

"It's time for my lunch," he announced, easing himself from the wall. The words spurred Moira into action, prompting her to dash up the stairs in a flurry of mutters about the importance of punctuality and consistency in research. After a rattle of bottles and slamming of fridge doors she returned to the shop, bearing a cola bottle filled with a worrisome liquid – red, viscous, and _glowing_. She passed it off to the mercenary.

He thanked her with nothing but a nod, grabbing the strange brew and marching to the door. Before he stepped out into the sunshine he turned his attentions on Mr. Burke. "Time for you to leave."

"Even geniuses need to eat," Moira explained when Mr. Burke looked to her for confirmation of the order. The beat-up jumpsuit she wore shifted as she shrugged her shoulders. "You're welcome to join me, but for some reason nobody ever wants to. I wonder if it has something to do with the brahmin dung that gets tracked in here by the traders..."

"Lunch," Mr. Burke answered before she could offer any more compelling reasons to regret his next words, "sounds like an excellent proposition." Holding his sticky fingers up, he gave her a charming smile. "But first, I need a place to wash my hands."


	4. Chapter 4

"It _is_ a new way to prepare radroach meat," Moira said, poking her spoon at the dish in front of her. Taking another mouthful she contemplated it, swilling it from side to side before choking it down. "Still tastes like old feet, though."

Mr. Burke stabbed his meal with lacklustre enthusiasm, musing _feet_ wasn't perhaps the correct portion of the brahmin's anatomy to describe the dish. Somehow the self-proclaimed inventor, tinkerer, and genius of junk managed to create a sort of radroach _mousse_, with the same appetizing consistency, colour, and aroma of runny brahmin shit.

"It does temper the appetite," he declared, finding his hunger numbed without having taken a bite. At least the nuka-cola – still in an unopened bottle, offering a reassuring tamper-free hiss of carbonation at the removal of the cap – was safe to consume. Still, he'd wiped down the outside of the rim, just to be sure.

"I wonder if a different meat would work better," Moira mused before sampling another portion of lunch. Lips puckered in horror, she scribbled down a few notes on her handy clipboard. "Like maybe mole rats. You know, I've been contemplating the possibilities of domesticating mole rats. Sure, it's a little gross, but milk is milk and meat is meat, right?"

Mr. Burke nodded in agreement, abandoning his spoon deep in his inedible dish of radroach purée, a lingering, horrific punishment even the most unruly of cutlery didn't deserve. Shafts of sunlight poured in through holes in the corroded metal roof, highlighting the dust motes and grit dancing in the air. He leaned his elbows on the rickety table set up in Moira's personal quarters – a cluttered mishmash of living space, research station, and workshop.

With no actual eating to get in the way, he began the careful process of guiding the conversation, trying to plumb the seemingly elastic edges of her moral compass. "Is there no limit to your creative genius? Mechanics, food, _medicine_—"

"Well, I haven't done much with food before." Moira interrupted, seizing on the wrong topic. "But if you think about it, food's really just a bunch of molecules undergoing thermal reactions, predictable and understandable through the practical application of organic chemistry. So my research into modified pharmaceuticals is kinda like cooking, which means I should be a super chef!"

"I'm sorry; modified _drugs_?" Mr. Burke took a closer look at the woman across the table from him, thinking this explained everything. She wasn't the usual sort of jet addict because she didn't use the usual form of jet.

Before she discounted herself from his plans—he never worked with addicts due to their lack of dependability—Moira hastened to explain. "No, don't be silly," she waved her hand at him, dismissing the suggestion. "Drugs are bad for you, everybody knows that. But some of the effects they give are really useful, and if you could prevent the bad ones and keep the good ones, it'd help a lot of people."

Twirling her spoon in her unappetizing lunch, Moira elaborated on her most recent experiments. "Sure, most of the original ingredients and formulas are lost, but you'd be surprised what substitutions you can use if you look hard enough. Who knew you could make nuka-psycho with common—"

"_Nuka-psycho_?" Mr. Burke cut her off, boggling at the concept. With dawning astonishment he realized he'd already seen it, a luminous red beverage being carried down the stairs in the hands of a callous humanitarian. "Was that the merc's lunch?"

Moira clucked her teeth, squirming as she toyed with her food. "Well, there was a teensy problem with the formula, and there's still some minor side effects to work out. Turns out it's really addictive, and it kinda keeps you awake. He hasn't slept for two weeks, and he also says it hurts to sit down." Her brows furrowed as she spoke, the perplexed note of a frustrated scientist creeping into her tone.

With a sigh she brightened, minor doubts dissolving in her optimism. "But, now he takes it in payment instead of caps, and he's the most vigilant guard you could ask for!" Her cheerful words quieted, trailing out into a mumble under her breath. "Even if it's a bit creepy knowing he's always watching while I sleep..."

"I'm sure it could prove useful, once refined," Mr. Burke quickly spoke, trying to keep her focused for longer than a minute. The woman's mind never stopped working, constantly analyzing and theorizing with the most remarkable leaps of logic—except in her case, logic didn't leap in a straight line, but rather kitty-corner and a little lopsided. "Perhaps as useful as that other project you're working on; what was it again? Some sort of _guide_—"

He barely managed to finish the word before she took over the conversation, outlining her plans, detailing the studies she'd already conducted, lamenting the difficulties in finding more research assistants to _help_—as she termed it, though he felt a more apt phrase would be _sacrifice. _As she spoke, eyes alight with an incendiary ferocity of passion and drive, she rose another notch in his estimation to a category very few people ever achieved—that of _useful_.

"Radiation? I know lots about it from books, but I never seem to get a live example. Not for long, anyway." The answer she gave to his question about why she wanted to study radiation only solidified his growing respect for her remarkable mind. "Say," she said, looking at Mr. Burke with the same assessing gaze she normally turned on the junk lining the shop shelves, "you look like you know your way around the wastes..."

"Alas," he smoothly deflected, "like you, my burdens in forging a brighter future for humanity deny me the luxury of..._first-hand_ involvement." The inedible radroach mousse, starting to sweat in the midday heat, was shunted aside as he began his proposal. His enthusiasm for the project warmed his words. "My employer, Mr. Tenpenny, has a truly inspired vision for the wastes. These times are the crucible for a _glorious_ future."

"Wow," Moira breathed in delighted surprise, "most people around here don't care about anything besides who's going to put out the fires and clean up the mess." Vexed little wrinkles crossed her forehead, noisy remembrances proving more distasteful to her than her barely touched entrée. "And I'm always the one they blame for starting them—"

He didn't bother hiding his scorn for the witless rabble of Megaton. "Apathy is a condition of the present blight." Reaching across the table, his fingertips gently rested on her forearm, the touch bringing her wayward attention back into focus. "In the future men will have passion and ideals again. But in the present, people like you—like _us_—must carry the burden of responsibility, toiling thanklessly away as we build a new world for mankind."

His words struck a chord, Moira's boundless enthusiasm brimming over in response. "Exactly! It's like... Did you ever try to put a broken piece of glass back together? Even if the pieces fit, you can't make it whole again the way it was. But if you're clever, you can still use the pieces to make other useful things. Maybe even something wonderful, like a mosaic." She momentarily paused, sagging back in her seat as hesitation tripped on her tongue, mind searching for a way to verbalize her feelings. "Well, the world broke just like glass. And everyone's trying to put it back together like it was, but it'll never come together the same way."

"Quite an astute observation." The fingers on her arm tightened a notch as he leaned in, trying to close the distance between them. Drawing on his considerable practice with negotiations, he adopted his most flattering and conciliatory tone.. "Genius like yours needs to be nurtured, allowed to flourish. This research into the effects of radiation – it shouldn't be squandered on small scale experiments. With the resources I can offer, your brilliance can finally fly free, high above the filth holding you down."

"I wonder what it was like to fly. Hard to imagine the pieces of this town used to soar through the air—" Moira caught herself before her thoughts wandered too far, returning to the matter at hand with a shy smile. "I'm always thinking about things. I figured, instead of just helping out the caravans with odd junk, why not put my brilliant mind to work for everyone?"

"But you can't do such important work alone." At his words Moira nodded her head, unaware she responded to the imperceptible pull on her arm and the lowering of his voice. She sat up, leaning across the table to hear him better. "It so happens your research into radiation coincides with that of my employer. He, however, wishes to conduct such a study on a much larger scale."

Feeling the thrill of anticipation on his spine, like standing at the ledge of a high cliff, Mr. Burke plunged into his proposal. "This common radiation we deal with on a daily basis is too narrow a subject to waste your brilliance on. Have you never wondered what happened when the bombs fell? The power, the force, the aftermath—think of the things we could learn, the things we could do, the new future we could forge, if only we had firsthand knowledge of their impact."

"I don't think those bits and pieces on the workbench will make a time machine," Moira joked. Amused by her cleverness, she consolingly patted his hand, still resting atop her warm forearm. "It's an interesting idea, but even I know you can't travel back in time. At least, not with anything you can make from the junk in my shop."

"It's a time machine of a different sort; bringing the past to the present, if you will." Carefully, smoothly, Mr. Burke outlined his plan, framing it in the context of scientific research and necessary experimentation. Despite the cold hearted manner in which she conducted her studies, he felt it wouldn't be prudent to refer to her home in Megaton as a pestilent blight on the landscape.

Moira listened, face an animated mixture of emotions and questions, though she said nothing until he finished his pitch. Drawing her hands away, she scrutinized him for a long moment, before summarily grabbing the dishes of half-melted radroach mousse and stalking off to the sink with a thin chuckle. "You almost had me there," she called to him, voice over-loud and jittery, "that bomb's perfectly safe. Why else would they build a town around it? Besides, it's never hurt anyone. Live and let live, right?"

Mr. Burke rose from his chair and walked over to her, his footsteps lost to the crash and rattle of her nervous dish washing. She hadn't ordered him out, nor had she started yelling for the fool who passed for a sheriff—which, considering the nature of his request, he took as a good sign. "Miss Brown," he soothed, causing her to jump when he touched her on the shoulder, "the undetonated atomic bomb for which this town is named is still very much alive. All it needs is a little motivation. I have in my possession the schematics for a fusion pulse charge designed for a singular purpose—the detonation of that bomb."

"Why would you want to blow up the town? That's crazy-talk!" Moira grabbed the grimy bowls, still tainted with the greasy stink of radroach meat, and briskly walked over to the shelves in the corner to put them away. Mr. Burke followed on her heels, surprising her when she abruptly turned around and bumped off his chest.

The fear and worry she radiated didn't discourage him—if anything, it incited him to continue. She didn't strike him as the type to wrestle with moral qualms so much as theoretical stumbling blocks. All he needed to do was figure out which barrier of hers to tear down, unleashing her mind from its self-imposed shackles.

Placing his arms on either wall to hem her in, he leaned closer with a smile. "Miss Brown." Her wide green eyes watched him with disconcerting intensity. Remarkable how fierce her attention could be when she focused it on a single thing, rather than letting it scatter like ball bearings dropped on a floor. "I've never met a woman quite like you before. You are unique, a rarity in the barren wastes. Why squander your remarkable gift shoveling brahmin shit and selling garbage when you could realize your full potential at Tenpenny Towers? Do this, and there's no telling how far my gratitude will reach."

Moira thought for a long while, shifting uncomfortably on the spot. "It's not garbage!" she finally blurted out, pointing angrily around her home. A moment later she crossed her arms with a heavy sigh, voice calm, contemplative, and almost wistful. Mr. Burke listened closely, realizing he was hearing her innermost thoughts. "But don't be fooled - it is junk. It's just that junk's pretty important stuff, you know? Junk can be turned into all sorts of useful things. And sometimes, even something wonderful. Junk's all we've got left after the world blew up."

Shaking her head, stray wisps of her messy ponytail waving like feathers, she ducked under his arm in an attempt to slip past. "Everyone's trying to fix it like it was, but nobody's trying to make something that's better."

"But I am," he grabbed her arm, pulling her back. Pushing her against the wall—firmly but carefully—he pressed his point. "And so are you. Don't let your doubts confuse you—you know it's the only way to make things better. You know how _important_ this is!"

Moira blew a stray hair out of her face, making no attempts to squirm free. "You'd be surprised how confused people get, even about important things," she replied.

"I understand all too well. The work I am doing for mankind is very important." For a brief moment he indulged his weariness, confessing the doubts that sometimes plagued even him. Moira continued to blow the hair away from her eyes as she listened. "I'm growing tired of this burden of mine. I'm not even sure they will appreciate all the efforts I am making for them."

Letting go of her arm, Mr. Burke gently brushed the wayward hair off her forehead. "But it is a burden I shall continue to carry, because someone must. And I am a man of responsibility."

A flush crept up Moira's neck, and though she was free to step away she remained pressed against the corrugated metal wall. "Well, a gift like mine is a pretty big responsibility," she mumbled.

"Megaton is obsolete." A hint of purr crept into his words, seductive and inviting. "The last vestige of a cobbled, desperate past. Sacrifices for a nobler future. I assure you, they are worth ten times as much as test subjects."

"And I guess this is what the ascension mumbo-jumbo atom-cultists want, too. So, nice of you to help them like that, I guess."

Heartened by the amount of chipper creeping back into her words, he took hold of her stained hands, pressing them together. Without a trace of irony, Mr. Burke played his last card. "Miss Brown," he coaxed, "with the information we gain from this experiment, just think of all the lives you could save!"

"Yes!" Moira lit up at the thought, her brilliantly perky smile a beautiful sight to behold. With the acceptance of his proposal came a sudden rush of tingles over his skin, his hairs rising and settling in wave of excitement. She wasn't some addled shopkeeper who smelt of brahmin crap and rust, nor was she simply a gullible pawn with no independent will or reason. She was something unique, something he'd never met before, something fascinating—Moira Brown, in that instant, became something he never thought he'd find—his _partner_.

He took a respectful step back, sweeping his arm towards the staircase in a display of gallantry. "My dear Miss Brown—"

"Moira," she corrected in her perky sing-song. "If we're going to work together, you'd better call me Moira. It's faster to shout in a hurry—not that you should ever have to. At least, not too often..."

"Moira," he repeated with a sly smile, "I do believe there's an unassembled fusion pulse charge on the workbench awaiting the attentions of your talented hands."


	5. Chapter 5

The commanding view from the balcony, magnificent in the dusky violet of sunset, did nothing to distract Mr. Burke from the fading burn on his finger. It no longer hurt, but he couldn't stop remembering how he got it—or more specifically, _who_ he got it from.

He couldn't get Moira Brown off his mind. For the past fortnight she'd been uppermost on his thoughts, so many small, innocuous moments of their brief time together replaying endlessly in his memories.

Working together on the fusion pulse charge, a slip of the hand bringing about the accidental collision of digit and soldering iron. The pain of the incident was quickly eclipsed by the exciting feel of her lips on his skin and the amusing mumble of explanation given past a mouthful of finger—_This always makes my burns feel better._

The bemusement, confusion, and sweet naivety in her eyes when he could contain his laughter no longer as he listened to the spectacularly bad results of past experiments. _How was I supposed to know the centaur would think my assistant smelled so tasty?_ still made him chuckle as he paced the quiet corridors of Tenpenny Tower.

The flashes of inspired genius he bore firsthand witness to as she embraced the _scientific experiment_ they were about to conduct, the full magnificence and potential of her brilliant mind staggering to behold. Yet she terrified and unnerved him at the same time. He still hoped his injunction—that working as her partner rendered him invalid from participating in any and all of her studies, either with or without his consent—managed to make an impression.

No matter how he tried, he couldn't put her from his thoughts. Not when her items arrived in a subtly slow stream, sent in bits and pieces through the traders and caravans. Each day brought another treasured piece of junk, half-finished invention, or carton full of potentially useful parts she hadn't found a use for—_yet_.

Each day he waited, up high where the filth and grit of the wastes couldn't reach, wondering if it would be the day she finally arrived. More than just the anticipation of seeing another project through to completion interfered with his sleep and stole his attention away.

Much to his surprise, he found he wanted—_needed_—to see her again.

The distant static of the patched-together intercom crackled in the hallway, the sound twisting and thinning as it wended off the walls of the suite until it mutated into something greasily horrid, like bloatflies sizzling in salvaged motor oil. Mr. Burke held his breath, trying to make out the faint conversation between the guard by the suite door and Chief Gustavo. It took longer than usual, and at the first creak of the chair as the guard stood up he felt galvanizing excitement race down his spine. Before the guard even opened his mouth Mr. Burke already knew.

She'd arrived.

Suddenly the protracted hours of restless waiting evaporated, replaced immediately with an unfamiliar impulse to _hurry_. Ridiculous—clearly, everything was arranged and there remained nothing left to do but send the momentous pulse racing through the evening sky—yet he couldn't shake the giddy anticipation, almost childish in its earnestness, at the news of her arrival.

Grabbing the detonator, slumbering dangerously in its metal briefcase, Mr. Burke went to rouse Alistair Tenpenny. He'd once considered the man a partner, a fellow visionary ready to shape the wastes into a better, brighter future through force of will and cunning plans. The older man had been mentor and general, guide and friend.

Except time and success mellowed the fires of ambition, Mr. Tenpenny content to live in his self-styled monument to his own magnificence. His name, connections, and wealth still opened many doors Mr. Burke would otherwise have to get through, go around, or blast open. Despite the power and influence Tenpenny brought to the table, Mr. Burke found the burden of organizing projects from conception to completion falling heavier onto his shoulders until he essentially bore it alone.

Not that he'd complain, finding a satisfying sort of pleasure in having complete control. Still, he couldn't help wondering what it would be like to have a compatriot—more clever than a minion, more useful than an underling, more responsible than a commander. Someone who could make his ideas bigger, better, with more of an impact than ever...

"Wow! This tower really does _tower_ over the wastes, doesn't it?"

Two weeks ago Mr. Burke would have shuddered at the gleefully happy voice and wickedly awful pun, but now he couldn't manage anything worse than a smile. Making quick work of the introductions—Moira Brown a charmingly dust-caked mass of scientific enthusiasm and bubbling personality, Alistair Tenpenny a jaded mass of fine scotch and indolent idleness—he wasted no time in coaxing everyone out to the balcony.

Flipping open the metal briefcase, click of the latches heralds of impending triumph, Mr. Burke reflected on the beauty of the evening. With the sun's rays withered to a weak gloom, and the sky above the jagged outline of Megaton already thick with night, the true majesty of another successful plan would be displayed in its full glory.

"Ah. The anticipation is palpable, isn't it?" he commented as Tenpenny sank into his chair with an air of impatience, and Moira stepped beside him, seemingly vibrating with inquisitive excitement. With the smug good humour of the victor, he indicated the portentous scarlet knob to her. "When you have finished savoring the moment, you may have the honor of pressing the button."

"_All_ the preparations were completed?" she asked, hand hovering over the detonator. It dipped closer, then jerked right back up as she asked another question. "And my terminal? You've got it? Wouldn't want to lose my notes and have to do all that research again—"

"Already set up for you," he assured her, attentively watching the grit-smudged hand descend ever closer...

Her hand flew up in a frustrating burst of scientific concerns."But what about the sensors? The thermometers? And anemometers? And Geiger counters? And electromagnetic—"

"All in place." He'd seen to it all of the data she wanted—measuring things he hadn't known could be quantified—would be gathered with as much accuracy as the circumstances allowed. He'd even gone so far as to hire Talon Company mercs to guard her odd devices from raiders and supermutants, as they had to be spaced at specific intervals throughout the uninhabited wastes. Arranging to pay them only for the devices that returned had been a clever negotiating success—more than likely the first few clusters of gizmos and mercs would be vaporized, bringing the cost under budget.

Not that he'd been especially thrifty in other areas where Moira was concerned: arranging for her to use the newly completed penthouse suite beside his own—a mere coincidence; acquiring every mechanical, scientific, or simply unusual piece of esoterica from the shops and passing caravans with thoughts of her creative inspiration—or surprised delight; programming Godfrey to accept her instructions—limited, restricted, hazard-free ones only, of course.

"Well, it's not like you can conduct an experiment on this scale every day," she lectured, somehow managing a sternly chipper tone. "After all, it's very important research—"

Seizing her hand, he pressed it down until one grease-stained fingertip rested on the trigger. "And you play the most important role of all. Hit the switch!" he urged, sensing a shared excitement pass between them. "Oh, and mind your eyes," he quickly added, "it'll be brighter than bright."

"Right, my lucky shades!" she exclaimed, patting the pockets of her faded jumpsuit with her free hand. Finding the sought-after accessory, she pulled out a pair of novelty sunglasses with white plastic frames and lenses shaped into stars. She slipped them into place, the cheerful absurdity of them somehow fitting. "Thanks! You're already a super research partner!"

Looking up to the horizon, she straightened her shoulders, took a deep breath, and destroyed a town without lifting a finger—she did it by pushing with a finger instead.

Mr. Burke felt her do it, the hand holding hers to the detonator left there as the pulse raced through the air, faster than he'd ever imagined, improbably fast. The explosion—staggeringly, awesomely, superlatively powerful—seemed to happen instantaneously with that one tiny dip of her grubby finger. Megaton, long cursed blight on the horizon, disappeared in a flash of light and heat. A glowing mushroom cloud sprouted, grew, and flourished in the filth of the town below.

Awestruck by the haunting beauty of it, he didn't notice Tenpenny leave soon after, already bored with the novelty. Mr. Burke remained there with Moira, both of them soaking in every moment of it, thoughts meaningless compared to the simple, overwhelming amazement from merely bearing witness to the spectacle.

As the cloud dissipated and the fog of dust hovering over the wasteland began to settle, he finally found his voice. "My God...what transcendent beauty...what purifying light...."

"Yeah, explosions sure are pretty." Moira, roused from her trance of observation, let out a deeply contented sigh.

"It was a wonderful thing you did. Inspirational. Truly." Managing to look away from the shadow impression of explosion hanging in his vision, he took in the sight of Moira, wearing her comical shades and beaming with pride.

Realizing he still held her hand pressed to the detonator, he lifted it off, stole one last glance at the glorious nothingness that used to be Megaton, and herded Moira back inside. The afterglow of success beyond his wildest imaginings warmed his voice. "That place, those people... necessary sacrifices in paving the way towards progress."

The soporific spell the explosion cast on her mind wore off, her imagination and tongue racing as quickly as ever. "Now I can finally see how my own home-made rad-cure concoction handles that nasty radiation," she jabbered. "I've never had a chance to test it out on people so heavily dosed, but I'm sure it'll work out fine. Exciting, isn't it?"

Mr. Burke nodded, feeling too content to concern himself with pointing out the residents she planned to conduct her tests on were nothing but radioactive particles and unpleasant memories. However, he'd be more than happy to direct any Talon Company mercs suffering a radiation hangover from her little 'experiment' in her direction.

He'd already budgeted for a generous amount of _research assistants_, _test subjects_, and _human guinea pigs_ to hire for her needs. Considering it a form of insurance on his continued good health, he hoped it would keep her from ever appraising him as a candidate for her studies.

"Of course, with that much radiation there might be other effects to contend with," Moira continued, musing out loud as she tucked her sunglasses back in her pocket. "Some might not just be suffering from radiation poisoning..." Turning to Mr. Burke with a gasp, she clutched his arm in excitement. "Why, some might even be turning into ghouls!"

"_Ghouls_?" he repeated with revulsion as he led her down the hallway to her suite. Much as he wanted to encourage her extraordinary researches, he did have his limits. Wasting time and resources attempting to aid aberrations of nature certainly fell outside those boundaries.

"This is amazing!" Moira chirped, oblivious to the snide curl of his lip. "Oh, I always was curious to do some tests involving Ghouls."

Stopping abruptly in front of her suite door, Mr. Burke took a long, scrutinizing look at the woman he'd invited into his home, his work, and his plans. Moira grinned happily back at him, green eyes alight with thoughts of new discoveries, auburn hair haphazardly gathered into a ponytail, jumpsuit covered in wasteland dust, and hands still grimy with mechanical, chemical, and organic substances.

Past the innocent exterior he could see her for what she truly was—the most callous, subtle, creative murderer he'd ever had the pleasure to work with. She didn't fool him for a second—he knew exactly what types of tests she wanted to conduct on Ghouls, and just what fates awaited her _volunteers_.

He found in her the perfect, most glorious _partner_. With an incandescent mind, more luminous than the bomb blast, together they would light up the wasteland, turning Tenpenny Tower into a beacon of civilization and hope.

Already she was contributing, unaware of the ghoul problem in the basement—a trifling matter in the face of her applied genius.

"Welcome home," he stated. A quick twist of the key and turn of the knob revealed the unique suite, furnished for a most unique woman.

Moira, already overexcited from the explosion, never stopped exclaiming or moving once the door swung open. Mr. Burke watched as each new surprise or delight set her off again, the enticing enigma of a brilliant killer wandering through her new home with all the innocence and wonder of a child.

Her first shock came upon seeing Godfrey, the robot's personal greeting eliciting a stunned _wow_. After she managed to pull herself away from the machine, she prowled through the spacious room, admiring the arrangement of the items she'd sent ahead with further _wows_—console set up on a desk, junk stacked neatly on shelves, toolboxes arranged around a large workspace. The things she hadn't brought with her seemed to cause twice as many _wows_, Moira able to name most of the bits and pieces by sight alone.

Considering the traders he purchased them from hadn't a clue what they were called, Mr. Burke was quite impressed.

As she wandered off to explore the bathroom, exclaiming with delight over the purified water flowing from the tap, Mr. Burke popped open the working nuka-cola machine in the corner. He didn't doubt she'd soon fill it with many inedible substances—he wouldn't be surprised if she promptly cycled every bit of junk in the room through it, carefully noting the effect of _cold_ on each item—but for the moment it housed only a chilled pair of tumblers.

"Try washing your hands in it," he called to her as he poured out a measure of whiskey into each ice-frosted glass.

Moira emerged soon after, water splashed all over her jumpsuit, her face and hands the cleanest he'd ever seen. She moved to take the offered beverage, but didn't get past a low set of shelves by the bathroom door before exclaiming in delight. "A radiphlange!" Picking up a small metal gadget, similar in his eyes to the innumerable metal gadgets she already owned, she held it tenderly in her hands, admiring it as she walked over to him. "I've been looking for one of these for years! This is all so..." she gestured around the room with her treasured radiphlange, lost for words. Finally, she settled for a heartfelt, "_Wow_!"

Mr. Burke held out her glass. She tucked the prized radiphlange into her pocket before accepting the offer. "Moira," he purred, every word slow and measured, warm and meaningful, "I mentioned the limitless extent of my gratitude, and I am a man of my word. You should be proud of your accomplishments. You've more than earned your reward."

"Thank you, Mr. Burke," she replied, hint of flush creeping up her neck.

"No, my dear Moira, that will not do." He grabbed hold of her free hand and stepped a shade closer to her, watching her cheeks redden in a full-out blush. "This is a partnership, after all. Please, call me Lucien."

"Thank you, Lucien."

He nodded in satisfaction, raising his glass in a toast, the fingers of his other hand twining through hers until their palms pressed together. "Here's to a better future. Here's to..._us_."

Their cold glasses clinked, celebrating their current triumph and the many successes yet to come. Standing there, enjoying an ice-frosted tumbler of fine whiskey, with an exciting, enchanting, unpredictable, and all around entertaining woman in front of him, he couldn't keep from noticing the stains still on her hands—grime under the fingernails, smudges on the back of her knuckles, marks on her thumb.

Her hands might not be clean, and they might never get clean, but so long as they were dirty with the hard work of creating a better future for mankind—for _them_—he realized he wouldn't want them any other way.


End file.
